Entrapped
by addicted-to-my-reflection
Summary: It wasn't his fingers this time. It was his legs. Canon spinoff, branching from the point of Miles Upshur's encounter with Dr. Trager onwards.


**Entrapped**

**Fandom: Outlast**

**Rating: M- blood and gore, possible mentions to sexual violation later on. Because I have a messed up brain.**

**Summary: It wasn't his fingers this time. It was his legs. Branching off from Miles Upshur's encounter with Rick Trager. Spinoff from canon.**

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His mind didn't register when the first punch hit him square in the jaw, before the next fist came, pummeling the left side of his head twice before he hit the floor, side of his skull making a resounding noise against the edge of the dumbwaiter. His face contorted briefly, before going slack as he attempted feebly to raise himself from the ground- to no avail. The assailant was strong, looking down at him, bent forward with a hand on his arm.

"Hey, you're that little shit priest's guy, aren't you? You must be exhausted. Let's say we take a break, buddy. The old two martini lunch, have a little confab." The man- presumed a doctor- shook his head a little bit, reaching to grab Miles' arm as he hefted him over his shoulder and upwards into a wheelchair.

"Heavier than you look, a little cardio wouldn't kill you."

The latter moved his head ever so slightly, willing himself, trying so desperately to move, to do anything, but he found himself helpless, trapped as the doctor fastened his arms onto the sides, pushing his legs onto the footrests of the chair.

"Okay. Here we go. Arms and legs inside the car at all times."

_Move,_ Miles thought. _Dammit, just move. You can't be this weak. Dead. You're dead._

There were counters, blood. Dark floors stained with an ominous red, the tall shelves in a room. Carpet that may have once been light in shade, stained beyond recognition in places. He lolled his head forward as they moved further and further down the hallway.

_Why am I here? Was Murkoff…was it…people, blood everywhere…the missing limbs in the rooms…body falling from the ceiling…hulking masses…_ His head shook with fear as the chair rolled to a stop next to an elevator that looked to have aged and rusted. Facing a door…a jolt surged through his brain suddenly and Miles' head snapped forward.

"I love the mountain air up here at night. You want to head out? Take a stroll? Go ahead, I'll wait here. Really, I'm in no hurry. Run free." The doctor gestured toward the door, before tilting his head. Miles eyes lifted slightly and the man shrugged at the glare he received. "No? Alright. Nose to the grindstone, I like that."

_No._ Miles thought. _No. It was right there…a door…I can't…wake up, Upshur, for fuck's sake, wake up._

The wheelchair was pulled backward violently into a jilted elevator that had seen better days. "Okay. Right this way." Miles felt his eyelids getting heavier, the walls of the enclosed room becoming distorted as they began to move, up floor after floor that he couldn't count. Was there a needle? Surely he couldn't be so out without some type of anesthetic…a reporter has to…no, a survivor has to keep his wits.

He could tell a bit of the man's appearance now, strange device entangled in the flesh of his arm, a monocle, a bald head save for the sides and low back, covered in grey, and the lack of clothing save a doctor's apron around his waist and what looked to be remains of a surgeon's face covering.

Rusted doors pulled back with a grating noise, the doctor coming to stand behind Miles and pushing the wheelchair into the space of a hallway.

"Kill me…Kill me!" An anguished, pained voice echoed down the hall as the chair turned towards the conjoined hallway, wheeled through the empty side, away from the patients' beds. This corridor was lit, a man thrashing about in restraints with the gurgled words spewing past unheard lips.

"Shh, shhhh. You weren't putting that tongue to any use, anyway." Blood coated the patient's lips, Miles could now tell, along with the sheets surrounding him. "Truth be told, I was just tired of licking my own stamps.

Miles felt a jolt of fear in his spine but shoved it down. He had to endure. And then he could escape. Nothing could…or would stop him. He could run. He could…

The next room, larger and open in size, filled with patients' beds in a rather frenzied order, seemed to be in total disarray. Moans could be heard off to the central area but Miles simply took sight of the smears of blood on the floor, the streaks on the walls. Some looked dried while other bits seemed to be newer, a bright red in comparison. Scratches on the next doorframe indicated a struggle, along with the bloodied handprints showing the outcome of the loser. The confined suppressed a shudder, seeming to regain strength as he begin to shake, restraints pulling slightly, still too tight around his wrists to be loosened.

"Here we are then," the captor spoke.

The room reeked of decay, of piss and vomit, of blood and rotting flesh. In the dark, the reporter could already tell what awaited him once the room was lit again.

And then it was, the bloodied limbs and potential organs lain in a pile in the middle of the formerly stark white floor, red smearing the tiles, the counters, the sink and walls. "Now, if you'd just give me a minute to wash up…" the doctor pulled at Miles camera, snatching it from his grasp. "Oh, home movies!" He moved backward, camera open as he held his hand forward. "And it'll…give us a chance to talk." The camera was positioned to face the room, more specifically the chair in which Miles struggled, and his eyes trained on the doctor's back before flitting around.

A table which could not be entirely observed still caught Miles' eye and he knew, he_ knew_, that it was inevitable. That this fate would catch him and he would be restrained still, entrapped, unable to do a damn thing about it and _oh God, oh fuck, why the hell would you do this to me you damn lead, you damn priest, these patients and crazies and I'm not crazy, this can't be happening. Maiming, torturing, the cracking and splitting that I can feel in my skull already…it's not happening, wake up Miles Upshur, fucking wake up! _

He struggled harder, restraints digging into his wrists. Miles attempted to kick his feet out, hitting the side of the chair more than anything else, and like the struggles before, it was to no avail.

"You know, I'm a bit worried at how much time you've been spending with Father Martin." A pause as he turned around, walking toward Miles and leaning forward a little bit, the reporter able to take in every inch of the man's grotesque appearance, the skin and the device covering the left arm. He turns, walking with fast strides toward the table Miles had eyes earlier. "I hope you haven't been letting him confuse you with all his…holier-than-thou bible-thumping." A blade with a long, jagged edge is pulled as the doctor returned.

_I'm fucked,_ Miles thought. _This is insane. Sadistic._ Yet despite this, he still found himself rigid, unable to struggle as the blade pressed closer to his throat. His fingers, nails more specifically, dug further into the armrests as the doctor continued. "No offense to the man," the blade was against his neck now, pressing into the skin ever so slightly and Miles felt unable to breathe, "but I sometimes worry he might just be a little bit…crazy."

Then he is returning to the table and Miles winces at the spot where his neck had been so slightly nicked, taking a shallow breath again. He tugged at the restraints, thrashing a bit only to immediately stop at another look from the doctor. _This is how I end? Tortured by a homicidal, sadistic, psychotic fuck?_

"It's understandable, people are scared," the blade this time was longer, serrated, a bit wider. A bone saw, Miles realized, with a dry throat. "They are as likely to turn to God as anything else. God died with the gold standard. But we're onto more concrete faiths now."

The edge of the blade hit Miles' bicep and he tried to keep still, before the doctor turned again, seeming to walk away, though the saw was not released. "You have to rob Paul to pay Peter, there is no other way." The blade shone under the light with a wicked glint. "Murder in its simplest form. What happens when all the money is gone?"

He turned again, walking back towards Miles who braced himself with his head still faced upward defiantly.

"Well," the doctor continued, "money becomes a matter of faith, doesn't it. And that's what I'm here for." He crouched and Miles felt the side of a blade pressing against his restrained thigh.

"To make you believe."

And then the agony…

_FUCK OH HOLY CHRIST IT HURTS THE BLOOD THE BLOOD MY SKIN IS PEELING DISINTEGRATING DYING ROTTING I CAN FEEL THE BURN THE STING BLOOD RED IS LEAKING THE SKIN IS EATING ITSELF AND- HELL IT'S… THE B-THE-THE BON- OH FUCK FUCK FUCK IT'S WHITE, SEARING, CRACKING UNDER MY SKIN IN MY HEAD THE PAIN AND IT'S STILL SPLITTING DETERIORATING TO NOTHING MY GOD WHAT IS THIS WHERE AM I WHAT AM I- I'M DYING- OH FUCK, DYING, BLEEDING- AND…_

"_AAAAGGHHHH." _The agonized yelling came. _"F-F-GAAAAAHHHHH. AGHGHHHHGHG. M-MA-AAAA. LE- Can't- can't feel- it- head…" _

The blood fell with the limb to the floor, coating a new layer of red on the old stains on the tile as the reporter's head tilted back and all went black, save for the sound of the grating saw hitting a shin that was still attached.

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**Inspired by the quote of Rick Trager when you are hiding under a bed during the chase- "I should have cut off his feet first. Amateur move." So here he did. Will be continued shortly, when I am able to flesh out the characters a bit further. Later chapters should be longer.**

**- J**


End file.
